a long and difficult birth
It is printed. It must be a solid pound of language. Today will be spent with a pen in a coffee shop, giving it a last read from beginning to end and fixing any obvious infelicities. Tomorrow it will go into the mail and the waiting game will begin.
Over the last month I have developed the habit of an afternoon walk to break up the rigor of writing. It's nothing involved, just twenty minutes or so of walking in the sun and internalizing the quiet that hangs over this neighborhood during the day. There is no need for words, no need for conceptual thought; only the rockness of the rocks, the skyness of the sky. The mountains fill your entire field of vision here. They are older and smarter than me. They say nothing.
I have said what I can say. I am empty now, and tired. This is by far the longest and best thing I have made. May it suffice.
